


Obsolete

by mollysynthetic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Confused Virgin Mycroft, F/M, M/M, Minor one-sided Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft-centric, Suicide Attempt, Very minor Mycroft Holmes/Lady Smallwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 21:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9289970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollysynthetic/pseuds/mollysynthetic
Summary: Mycroft is not lonely.





	

**Author's Note:**

> After literal years of writer’s block The Lying Detective handed me the glorious concept of Confused Virgin Mycroft - so I took it and squeezed some angst out of it. This is the result.

 

He looks at the card in his hand and the small, neat handwriting. He should throw it away.

*

When Sherlock was eleven years old, he found a friend. This _friend_ was a year or two older (two), liked to talk a lot, and was relatively clever for an idiot. For some reason, he took a liking to the shy, odd child that no one else in school would bother getting to know.

And, baffling as it was, Sherlock took a liking to him. Was it the attention? The companionship?

After a year or so (nine months, eleven days) of Sherlock seemingly unable to utter a single sentence not beginning with _Aidan says –_ , he stopped talking altogether. Mycroft, home for the summer, watched his little brother across the dinner table, across the lawn, from the corridor outside Sherlock’s room. After a week of eerie, desperate silence, Mycroft reached out to touch him, just a hand on his shoulder to show his support, but Sherlock flinched, slipped away and wasn't seen for four days.

When Mycroft was back at uni, there was a girl in one of his new classes who had a mind that sparkled. She smiled at him once and asked if he wanted to study together. Mycroft thought about the shed, the small empty bottles and the long night at the hospital. "No, thank you", he told the girl. She frowned a little and said, “I've seen you looking at me, I thought -“

“No.”

There was a hurt look on her face, but feeling bad about it wouldn’t make any difference. She was pretty, smarter than everybody else and not shy. She would find someone else.

*

Sherlock eventually started talking again, but he was never quite the same.

*

Aidan Peterson lives in Boston nowadays. He has a Mrs. Peterson, they're both teachers, and two or three little Petersons (three. Although one of them is only half Peterson, if one wants to be absolutely correct). He has a good, happy life, Aidan Peterson. For now.

Isabelle Yates, Mycroft heard, is making a life in Paris and a rather good career at Sorbonne. She does live alone, though, so maybe she never did find anyone else.

Anna Henderson, who was also in Sherlock's class in secondary school and fond of talkative, green eyed boys, isn't doing so well.

*

He should throw the card away.

It's not like Mycroft Holmes needs to keep things written down to remember them, anyway.

*

The world is full of potential for making friends or lovers, if one is prepared to make them out of goldfish.

Or so Mycroft thought. It takes years (five) after Isabelle Yates tries to approach him before it happens again. At least that Mycroft notices. He has a lot on his mind, his intellect and ambition pushing him along faster than he is really prepared for. Maybe his mind just brushes of interest when it’s turned his way. Or maybe the goldfish recognize a shark when they see it and swim away.

He notices Simon Jones, though, in the way that it's very hard not to notice the interest of someone trying to work their hand down your trousers. But that is such a bad idea, _such_ a bad idea.

"I'm sorry, Simon," he says politely, "but I'm married. If you would…"

Simon pauses, as if considering this request. Then he withdraws his hand, but not before tucking Mycroft's shirt back in for him where it got rucked up. He then pats Mycroft's stomach gently and gives a small, lopsided smile.

"Maybe you should wear your ring then, if you want to avoid misunderstandings," he says.

"Maybe _you_ should ask people before you assault them," Mycroft replies. Not a very cutting comeback, when he thinks back to this day, but he was younger then, not to mention rather taken aback by the whole thing. His hands hadn’t stopped shaking for hours.

*

"Why on earth are you wearing a _ring_?" is the first thing Sherlock says. Not "thank you for coming to get me", not even "hello". For gods sakes, he's still wearing handcuffs.

"Just let him go," Mycroft tells the policewoman who's apparently in charge of his brother this time.

"Heirloom," he says to Sherlock, who looks even more suspicious.

"Financial value, not sentimental,” he adds, and immediately regrets it. Never elaborate on a lie that’s been seen through.

"Doesn't explain what it's doing on your finger."

"It's –"

"Never mind, I'm already bored. Get me out of here. Now."

*

Simon gets a new job. It's a promotion, and a fairly unexpected one for a secretary, even an efficient and attentive one. Mycroft only sees him every once in a while after this. He doesn’t mind when it happens. Only after, when he starts to wonder if Simon had been his last chance of… anything.

*

"I'm not _lonely_ , Sherlock."

*

Sherlock is an unsociable, self destructive drug addict who only ever wants to be clever, never lifts a finger to save himself, and never _ever_ learns from his mistakes. Mycroft, appalled, watches how he in spite of all this makes a new friend at the age of thirty. Well. At _first_ it's one. But it's not long before the filthy flat at Baker Street is teeming with people, all there not just to use Sherlock but to care for and talk to and – heavens – love his little brother.

There are a lot of people for the government to keep track of, these days.

*

Not lonely.

*

Greg Lestrade is a man of many virtues. The main ones being his trust in Sherlock and his willingness and ability to help, save and forgive him.

There are others, though. Ones Mycroft only ever lets himself think about when there are no major crises to handle, Sherlock-related or otherwise, when he has an evening to himself, when the austere silence of the Diogenes club is more oppressive than it is soothing and Mycroft retreats to his own home.

These nights he thinks about what it might be like to have someone in his house, sharing his food, his thoughts, his breath, his bed.

Repulsive, most likely. But when _someone_ morphs into _Greg_ , the only repulsion that remains is the one Mycroft feels towards himself.

*

 _Sherlock_ was the one dying in the shed, heartbroken at twelve years old.

Mycroft was unable to help him, so instead he learned from the mistake his brother clearly didn't.  Sherlock never learns, but Mycroft made sure that his unbearable pain hadn’t been in vain.

This is where it got him.

Not.

Not.

Lonely.

*

Anyway, Greg Lestrade is only a daydream.

*

The card still sits in his pocket. Mycroft takes is out, turns it over a couple of times. Folds it, unfolds it.

He feels like a sad old man, holding on to this tiny sign of… what, exactly? Fleeting interest? Attraction? Affection? He can't even decipher the intent correctly. _How very telling_ , Sherlock's voice scoffs at him.

He throws it away.


End file.
